


Oaths that Bind

by Jazzy_Kandra



Series: The Dragonic Symphony [2]
Category: Tales of Berseria, Tales of Zestiria
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, M/M, Some characters only appear in the prologue/interludes/epilogue, What happens when you spend too much time wondering what the hell happened 200 years before Zestiria, technically a sequel and a prequel because why not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2019-09-24 16:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17103755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jazzy_Kandra/pseuds/Jazzy_Kandra
Summary: Slight AU. On the tenth anniversary of Eizen’s death, Zaveid tells Edna the tale of her brother’s last stand and how the Unprecedented Cataclysm got its name.After all, a promise between men is just as sacred, and Zaveid has never backed down on fulfilling his word.





	1. Prologue: A Promise

“Hey Edna, I’ve been thinking,” Zaveid said, strutting towards the small earth seraph with his hands on top of his head. The two had stopped at the base of Rayfalke Spiritcrest to pick flowers while Rose and the other seraphim had gone ahead. Edna gave him a quick, dry glance in reply, then continued to unearth the yellow flowers at her feet. Wordless and cold, Zaveid had expected that response, especially today, but perhaps a clever quip could cheer her up a little. “What do you get when you play a folk-song backwards?”

The earth seraph in question did not look up at Zaveid. Instead, her cold, hard gaze remained on the rocky cliff face in front of her, a bit like steel, a bit like the earth beneath her feet. Solid, immovable, ready to mock at a moment’s notice, that was their Edna.

“This isn’t the time for levity, Grampeid,” she said, gathering the blossoms into her arms, a messy bouquet of dirt, roots, and botany. Eizen would’ve been proud he knew that word. “Take.”

Edna forced the bouquet into his hands, Zaveid made a whimpered. “I get that you’re an earth seraph, hon,” he began, “but this is not the kind of romantic gesture I u—“

She struck him on the shoulder with the side of her umbrella. By Mao, didn’t she know that thing stung? “You’re dating Lailah.”

“So?” he said, stepping to the side and back a few inches.

“She’ll get jealous.” He doubted it, but then again, women were confusing creatures. Who knew what might provoke a gal to jealousy, especially a fiery soul like the beautiful punster. After all, she had the potential to set the world on fire within her soul if the stars were only to align correctly again. “It’s best not to rise her ire, unless you want to be _Toast_ eid.”

Zaveid frowned. Still, he looked over his shoulder just in case this little chat had provoked Lailah’s jealousy and she had overhead them despite that she had gone ahead with Rose and Mikleo. Only he and Edna had stopped to pick the small yellow flowers that dotted the base of the old, sacred mountain. Following an old tradition that had once been carried out by the two seraphim who had once lived here. Now, however, it was done only in memoriam.

“She’d make it extra crispy, just for you,” Edna added. “Crispeid.”

He chuckled uncertainly at that. Lailah could indeed be frightening in the right situation. He’d watched her fight in battle before when he was supposed to be killing monsters. Her… _stances_ and movements were memorizing. Like dancing. And that ass. “Depends,” he said. “Can we at least have a make-up h—GODS, woman, let me keep my eye!”

He raised both hands, but she continued to stab at his eyeball with her parasol.

“No.”

She stabbed again.

“Hey!”

“This is pointless,” Edna declared, swinging her umbrella over her shoulder at last. He could always trust the small seraph to be as blunt as a brick and as sharp as its corners. “Let’s get going, gramps, we have a long ways to go before we reach the summit.”

Edna looked up, lifting her eyes to the highest peak of Spiritcrest and gave it a nod, as though to tell the one who slept there that she had returned home again. The twin peaks were still barren though the base of the mountain was now covered in grass and green plants, flowers and wildlife. New trees had sprouted here and there, and a few birds and squirrels had made their nests in their branches. Life had returned to the great mountain though its resident seraph had barely sit foot on its dusty peak in the last ten years.

As they climbed, a gentle shower began, causing rain to splatter on rock and dry earth, forming rivulets and puddles to form on rock and stone. Edna popped open her umbrella, shifting her bundle of flowers to her other arm and forcing the dirt to stick together with a little mana pressed into the soil. Zaveid groaned. His arms were covered in dirt, and that was quickly starting to become grime as the rain poured down.

Edna lifted an eyebrow, the slightest smirk touching the corner of her lips.

“Please?” he said, settling on gentlemanly politeness. “I’m a mess, darlin’.”

She cocked her head to the side, hopefully considering his predicament. “On one condition.”

“Sure.”

“No more talking until we reach the others,” she said.

Edna placed a hand on the bed of soil in his arms and infuse it with earth mana. Suddenly, the soil grew more form, less prone to becoming mud in his arms and covering them with muck, and a small barrier seemed to have formed, keeping the worse of the rain away from the flowers. Too bad it couldn’t keep him dry too. It was a nice trick, though, all things considered. He hummed in thanks, smiling a little.

She lifted a finger. “Don’t hum either.”

“You said one more word!”

One sharp stab from her umbrella was all he needed to not hum another note. Zaveid fell silent, listening to the wind and the rain as they climbed the lofty heights of the ancient peak. By the time they reached the others several hours later, the rain had stopped, but Zaveid’s hair, chest, and pants were completely drenched. Somedays, he wished he still had his old coat, but he had given that away decades ago. Even a wind seraph like he found such weather uncomfortable, and Edna hadn’t _once_ offered to protect him with her umbrella.

It seemed they had the luck of a reaper today. Fitting, considering the event that had brought them to the old, sacred mountain on Midsummer’s Day.

“Oh!” said Lailah, the first to notice that they had arrived at the Shepherd’s ‘camp’ half-way up the mountain. Though, really, the Shephard and the other Seraphim were just sitting on a few rocks waiting for the missing members of their merry troop to arrive. Lailah had already started a fire for Rose, who sat on a small boulder, completely dry despite the storm that had pestered Edna and Zaveid for hours. Life just wasn’t fair. “Oh, my…”

Lailah ran up to him, casting a weak fire arte to brush away the rain from his hair and to dry out his pants. He smiled and gave her a quick kiss in greeting. A quick kiss that might have ended after a good ten seconds, but hey, seraphim didn’t _need_ to breath, anyway.

“Hey babe,” he said, still holding onto his bundle of dirt and flowers in the other arm. “Now _my_ body is a flame.”

That enlisted a series of groans. Kids these days…

“That was a good one!” Lailah said with a laugh, clapping her hands together. He would have kept his arm wrapped around her waist, but he hadn’t yet discarded his floral burden and he was afraid he might drop it if he didn’t let her go. It had been a struggle even to kiss her with the flowers in hand. “You certainly a _rose_ to the occasion.”

Rose aptly raised a hand to her face and covered her eyes. At this reaction, Lailah laughed in reply, merry and bright, causing Edna to shake her head.

“I have to agree with the human, unfortunately,” Edna stated, much to Zaveid’s amusement. Though Edna had grown to hate humans less over the years, she still had a tendency to make such remarks. Just a part of her abrasive charm. “That _was_ a bad one.”

“But Enda!” Lailah cried. “It was the perfect opportunity. A grand—“

Rose cleared her throat. “How’d you guys get so wet anyway?”

“Rain shower,” Mikleo said, flipping to the next page in his book. He didn’t lift his eyes from the text, though knowing the water seraph, it was probably the old Celestial Record. A book that boy had read over a hundred times. Probably two hundred, really. “I sensed it coming earlier, but the clouds weren’t high enough to reach us up here.”

“Huh?” Rose looked back at him.

“What?” This time Mikleo did glance up from his tome.

“You…you can read the weather?” she asked, leaning forward, hands on her hips. “Wait. Could you always read the weather, Mikleo?”

He shrugged. “I’m a water seraph,” he answered. “Rose. You’ve been Shepherd for ten years now.”

She blushed at that, looking askance briefly. “Yeah…well, that doesn’t mean I know everything.” The Shepherd rubbed her head. That…always reminded him of a very different Shepherd from a long time ago…

Mikleo gave Rose an appraising look, narrowing his eyes and letting the silence linger for a few seconds longer than necessarily. Finally, he let out a snort. “I didn’t know how to do so until Zaveid taught me.”

“Really?” she asked.

“Yeah!” Zaveid said, stepping up to the fire. “Good ol’ Zaveid still has some tricks up his sleeve. Right, Miki-boy?”

Miki-boy rolled his eyes and went back to reading his tome.

“What _sleeve_?” Rose asked. “You still don’t have a shirt!”

“Pant leg, then,” he replied, he shook one leg accordingly. “I still have a ton to teach ya young folk.”

“Whatever,” Mikleo muttered, turning a page.

“Ah, sure,” Rose said at the same time.

“C’mon, hon, there’s no need for that tone.”

“Zaveid.”

“Huh?”

Instead of replying, the fire seraph nodded towards Edna. The earth seraph tapped her umbrella impatiently, her gaze distant. He sighed. The truth was, he had wanted to create a distraction. The task they were here to complete was far from a joyous one. Still, Edna wouldn’t just let them forget it, with an old familial finality, the small seraph spoke, the earth rumbling slightly.

“We need to plant the flowers,” Edna said, voice growing frigid and numb. Her back was turned to them now, her chin lifted towards the yet distant submit. They were only half-way up the mountain, near the place that Edna had originally encountered Sorey. Without looking back, she began walking forward.

The others followed, falling silent. They had come to Spiritcrest for one sole purpose, because they did not want Edna to be alone on the anniversary of her brother’s death. A brother she had slain herself, despite that _he_ had promised to kill Eizen if the earth seraph had ever became a dragon. She’d delivered the final stroke that had cracked Eizen’s skull.

Zaveid still regretted that his inaction had forced her into such a position. He should’ve killed Eizen long ago, when he had old Siegfried and still had enough bullets. He just had never found the strength to come up here and fire that shot. To kill his old bud. To save that bud’s sister from all this sorrow. That fact still gnawed at his insides, they could have avoided all this grief if he was as strong and as brave as he always pretended to be.

All he really had was fraudulent bravado. He just hoped they didn’t see past it.

Worse, he still hadn’t completely fulfilled his last promise to Eizen, either. _Cowardly to the end_ , Zaveid thought, bitterly. He clinched the buddle of flowers still in his hands, dirt crunching beneath his fingers. _But a man can always turn over a new leaf._

Zaveid let out a sigh, no longer wearing his usual grin.

“Hey, Edna.”

“Can’t it wait?” The small earth seraph sent him a fierce glare. “We still have an hour to go and…” She frowned at his serious expression. “Fine. What it is?”

“That’s exactly why it can’t,” he said. Lightning struck somewhere below. The sky had gone dark and he sensed rain on the wind. “There’s been something I’ve been meaning to tell you all.”

The others fell back. His tone was usually solemn, his gaze distant, his mouth in a line, but suddenly, Zaveid found he did not know how to untie his tongue.

For once in his life, he didn’t know how to blab.

A large drop of rain splattered against his upturned head, quickly followed by several more in quick succession, fall. Zaveid opened his eyes. Oddly, the sun had broken through the clouds despite that it had started raining. A sun-shower, something rare, something beautiful. Once thought to be a sign of Maotelus’ blessing upon the land. That was a sign good enough for him. This couldn’t just be a coincidence.

“I think you need to know the truth. About how your brother became a dragon, about the how the Unprecedented Cataclysm received its name, and about why history all but forgot the current line of Shepherds. After all,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, “a promise between men is just as sacred.”

She gave him a nod. “He made you give your word?”

He gave her his trademark smile, but edged with pain and sorrow. The truth hidden beneath the mask.

“Yeah, he did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Instead of having Sorey defeat Eizen on the same day that he fights Heldalf, this story has this event happen a few weeks before the final battle, as I find it hard to believe that they somehow they did all those things in one day (and Tales is not always that great at pacing or having time pass realistically). There are other reasons this story is a slight AU though, but we'll get to those eventually.
> 
> Also, yeah, "familial finality" is a lame pun. I know. You try writing Lailah and see what happens!


	2. Dark Tidings

_If you’re reading this, THAT’S impossible._

_I put spells and wards and curses on it to protect it from this sort of trespassing. But alas, it looks like you broke them…guess you have Maotelus’ own luck. Oh well, as I always say, upwards and onwards, you can’t stop fate!_

_Or alternately: gather ‘round ye dolts and listen, this is the tale of the era that would later be called “the Unprecedented Cataclysm” by those who prefer everything to sound glorious and grand…even disasters._

~M.L. Mayvin, "Preface",  _Hidden_ _Histories_ , V. 12

***

With a sense of great urgency, Maotelus delved into the Earthpulse. He had felt that something was  _off_ with his vessel, but he could not put a finger on it. That troubled him more than anything else...he knew his vessel thoroughly.

Or he thought he had.

His heart raced as the world shifted around him, transmuting from the stately columns and arches of the Shrinechurch into the physical manifestation of the Earthpulse. It was a strange realm of floating isles and suspended crystals far above a sea of endless mana. A place that linked all locals of this world to each other and supposedly gave him knowledge about every event that took place in the present and in the past.

 _If only that were true_ , he mused, landing gracefully on two very human feet in a pair of very human boots on a large island of lifeless earth. As was his norm, Maotelus did not travel the Earthpulse in his bulky dragonic form, instead choosing to take the shake of a young man to navigate the…unearthly realm and conduct his business. It was far easier to have actual _hands_ to touch the orbs linked to the Earthen Historia. _Unfortunately, each only contains a segment of the whole._ _It would make things far easier if I were actually all-knowing or it was…like those stupid priests like to teach._

Zaveid would say it was _his_ fault that they taught such shit. Zaveid was probably correct.

In reality, while the Earthen Historia did contain all-knowledge, it didn’t make him all-aware. But what was he supposed to do, tell his followers that the Earthpulse was actually a horribly arranged maze that you could easily get lost in for _months_ , if not years, at a time? Explain that the Earthen Historian was often confusing and ill-arranged, like something designed by an evil librarian just to befuddle the poor Empyrean who took the earth as his vessel? No wonder Innominat had been so insane. It wasn’t just his design, it was this whole damned place. The less people understood, the better. Zaveid would just have to accept it.

After all, they had built the new order on a foundation formed from lies. What did it one more lie matter? He had more things to trouble him than the disdain of one old wind seraph. Hyland and Rolance were quickly approaching war. Something else, also, seemed to have made the world sick, though one quick glance around the blue island gave him nothing of note. From here, the Earthpulse looked well. That was to say that all the strange blue platforms and crystals yet floated above the untroubled see of green.

Wonderful. It could never be _that_ simple. He began to walk, heading vaguely northwest. _What troubles you, old friend?_ he asked the earth, his hand slide into his pockets. _You look fine, but I feel a chill to the air._

A few globes of light floated up to greet him in response, swirling around him in a circle. Each, he knew, held a bit of information contained within the Historia. Reaching out, he caught one in his left hand, the gold on the edges of his fingerless glove shimmering strangely in the ethereal light. Briefly, a picture of Zaveid flashed before his eyes. Maotelus frowned. That wasn’t what he had wanted. He grabbed another. More Zaveid…this time chilling on the beach and…no. He glared at the orb. Great. It seemed like his earlier musings had actually summoned the wrong set of orbs instead.

Maotelus sighed in dismay. He needed to fire that librarian. Most of the time, the Historia didn’t respond this erratically…it… Maotelus blinked. _Perhaps that’s part of the problem_ , he thought. _It’s somehow…broke?_

A chill ran up his spine. This had never happened in all his eight-hundred-some years serving as the Fifth Empyrean. He stared at the orb in his hand, then let it ago, coming to a decision.

“Please,” he began, letting his power seep into the earth beneath his feet. “Show me something more recent. What has Zaveid been doing, lately?”

One of the spheres floated forward, landing gently on his palms. For a moment, nothing happened, then, he was consumed by light and memory.

_Within, he saw a hardwood forest of northern trees: old, thin, and looming in the dark of night like a throng of white specters watching the world with a hundred black eyes. Birch and aspen, he had heard them called, a kind of forest he had never had the chance to visit himself in his travels long ago. Even still, he passed under the ghostly trees, a shade partaking in the Earth’s memory._

_Splintered moonlight fell through the hidden canopy of leaf and branch above his head as he trudged through a foot of new snow. Sometimes, Mautelus hated how vivid these visions were when he entered them. While seraphim were not troubled by the cold in the same way as humans, the snow that had managed to get into his boots quickly melted, clogging his boots with water and making his trek through the wilderness increasingly uncomfortable. A person didn’t have to feel the winter chill to thoroughly dislike the season._

_Yet, it was early for winter even in the north, the Earth informed him. Red and gold leaves laid fresh and bright on the seamless blanket of white, perhaps downed in the recent snowstorm. He sighed, hand on the smooth bark of a white aspen tree, surveying the wintry scene laid out before him._

_“Yes,” he said. “It’s beautiful here. But why show me this?”_

_The wind blow a few long strands of light brunette hair into his face. That was often the way the Earth spoke to him in these visions of the past, nothing concrete, no words to guide him. She was sentient, but she did not speak the words of men or seraphim._

_“Is it because I’m stressed?” he asked. “Rolance and Hyland are close to war, of course I’m worried. One Shephard and a handful of squires won’t be enough if fighting breaks out.”_

_The Earth did not deign to send even a whisper of wind his way._

_“Is that all you can say?” Mautelus folded his hands into fists, his anger piqued by the Earth’s silence. “Didn’t you summon this memory because something is wrong? What is it? Where is Za—“_

_Gunshots rung through the forest. Mautelus covered his ears, sliding behind an aspen tree with two trunks fused together at the base. Heart hammering in his ribcage, his back against the smooth bark and knees drawn to his chest, he took a shaky breath. Those gunshots were close, less than an acre away at most. For a moment, he wished he was a small seraph again. That the menagerie could pop up in this woods and protect him. That Velvet…_

_He doused those fears and hopes in cold rationality. They couldn’t help him anymore, but here, at least, he didn’t need them. He could not actually get hurt in these visions, despite how real it felt.  Maotelus drew in another breath and peered through the v-shaped hole between the tree trunks, still keeping low despite that he knew the truth. Instincts from a childhood spent fighting could not so easily be tossed aside, not even eight-hundred years later._

_The moment he looked, a mass of fur and feathers shot past his head, breaking the birch in half and nearly knocking him out of the vision. The hellion landed on its front talons, sliding to a stop on top of the snow despite its gigantic size._

_Maotelus had only read of these beasts, the ice gryphons of the north that combined the body of a snow leopard, the wings of an ice wyvern, and the head of a white owl. Blue eyes glowed faintly in the night, seeming to glare straight at him despite that he should be invisible to its sight. He wasn’t even here. It couldn’t see him. He reached for his mana anyway, whispered a quick incantation, and summoned fire to his hand._

_“Hey!” a voice all but growled from behind Maotelus. “I said no running, idiot!”_

_Zaveid stood there looming over him, tall and strong as Maotelus remembered from his childhood. His hair was longer than Maotelus last recalled, now falling past his shoulder blades and flowing in the wind that always seemed to follow him. Oddly, it seemed he had misplaced his coat somewhere…maybe the monster had ripped it to shreds, though the monster had only landed a few scratches on his arms and legs. Despite this, Maotelus smiled, feeling a heap of relief that his old friend was safe, and lifted a hand in greeting._

_“This would hurt a lot less if you had just stood still,” the wind seraph continued, unaware of the seraph at his feet and thus, he pressed forward, taking his pendulum off his belt and swinging it once in a semi-circle. “I ain’t no Prime Lord, but I can help.”_

_Help wasn’t exactly how Maotelus would put it. All Zaveid could do was kill and maim, he could not purify and always had refused the position of Prime Lord. This didn’t stop the old wind seraph from hunting hellions. Maotelus flinched slightly, but this event had already taken place. He couldn’t save a person who was already dead._

Usually.

_Maotelus glanced back at the hellion. The ice gryphon bleed from multiple wounds that covered its body from head to toe, many oozing blood and a thick, purple haze, signaling that this creature was heavily malevolence. Most seraphim would have transformed into a hellion themselves in the presence of such a fiend, and even a seraph as powerful as Zaveid risked adsorbing some from this beast._

_Said beast let out a vicious growl, leaned forward on its hind legs, and dove straight for Zaveid and Maotelus, ice mana dripping from its claws and fangs as it attacks. Instincts took over, and both seraphim dodged out of the way. Zaveid landed on his feet, a ferocious grin sliding onto his face as he fell into an easy crouch, and Maotelus carefully stepped back, watching the fight unfold from a distance._

_Claws struck, but Zaveid ducked, snapping his pendulum against the owl-like head and momentarily stunning the beast. Then, taking that moment, he wind-stepped back, drawing in mana and summoning a quick Wind Lance, thrusting the ice gryphon backward._

_Luck wasn’t with the seraph, however. The beast wasn’t knocked back, instead, its elemental weakness only served to increase its rage. Suddenly filled with a new burst of speed, it slammed into Zaveid before the wind seraph had a chance to move out of the way or even defend himself, ice and fangs and claws ripping into him. Buried in the snow, Zaveid did not let out a scream, instead he had frozen stiff, a statue of ice in the snow, the monster backed off, growling still and whimpering due to its wounds. It looked weary, despite the wind seraph’s fate._

_Seeing all this, Maotelus screamed. The creature stopped moving, frozen in time. He ran across the snow, slipped, and landed on his knees at the old wind seraph’s side._

_This couldn’t have happened. His friend couldn’t have died here without him even knowing. His heart leaped into his chest, tears fell from his eyes, he reached for Zaveid a healing spell on his lips, but his hand went through the statue, his magic fell useless to the ground._

_This wasn’t real. This had already happened. Maotelus looked up, brushing away his tears. The least he could do was watch the rest of this memory._

_At least someone would recall the last deeds of his old friend. He would have to tell Eizen what had happened. That…was a horrifying thought._

_But it would not do for this to be forgotten._

_Time flowed, snow fell, the monster_

_Someone let out a shout, followed by a powerful spell exploded beneath the monster’s feet. Quickly, it was burned alive in the certain of an “X” of green flames, the fires screeching as it was devoured by magic, and a moment later, a young wind seraph rushed out from beneath the trees, engulfed in a dark coat too big for his small form. It was vaguely familiar._

_As soon as he reached Zaveid, the young seraph took out a bottle filled with a deep red liquid out of his pocket and poured this into the statue’s mouth. For a moment, nothing changed and Maotelus worried that the nameless seraph’s efforts were all for naught and he had been a few seconds too late, but the ice melted and color started to return to the old wind seraph’s flesh._

_A few coughs followed, then Zaveid opened his eyes and growled, glaring so darkly at the young seraph that the boy scrambled to his feet, fear painted onto his face. “I thought I told you_ not _to follow me.”_

_The young seraph regained his composure and glared back, equally vicious. “Like hell I’d care,” he said. “You’re stupid.”_

_“Heh.”_

_“That thing killed twenty people already.”_

_“Yeah,” Zaveid said, then fell into another coughing fit. The young seraph took out an apple gel, frowning in dismay as he began to apply it to Zaveid’s wounds. “I really need to teach ya a healing spell.”_

_“Quickness is shitty.”_

_Unlike most fathers, Zaveid didn’t reprehend him for those words. Knowing Zaveid, he probably promoted such a foul mouth._

_“Yeah, yeah.” He waved the young seraph off dismissively…then casted the spell on himself. “But it cures fatigue.”_

_“Whatever.”_

_“I wasn’t done yelling at you, kid,” Zaveid continued, lifting his hand. “You should’ve stayed back in camp with your big sister.”_

_“And let you have all the excite—“_

_“No!” he said, grabbing the young seraph by the collar. “You don’t have a suitable vessel. You can’t go fighting daemons…”_

_The young seraph took out a hat from the ether and put it on his head. It, Maotelus noted, glowed faintly with wind mana, the sign that a wind seraph had taken it as their vessel._

_Realizing this as well, Zaveid rolled his eyes. “And you’re ten.”_

_“Twelve, actually.”_

_“Lafarga, do ya really think two years matters to me?” Zaveid said, pointing back at himself with his thumb. “Your mana’s not fully stabilized yet, a spell of that power could have leveled both_ you _and that hellion. It should have. You’re lucky to even be here and not just scattered bits.”_

_“You’re not Maotelus,” Zaveid concluded, letting his eyes draw close._

_Maotelus frowned, what did he mean by that? Wouldn’t it have been…no, perhaps not. He was a human reborn as a seraph and had been a part of Innominat as well, perhaps those factors had make him more stable than the average young seraph. Or lucky. He couldn’t be sure._

_“What?” Lafarga raised an eyebrow. “What has the Great Empyrean have to do with me?”_

_Zaveid shook his head. “Never mind, just an old man’s rambling.” Then, with a groan and a painful crack of his back, he lifted himself up into a sitting position, his head now nearly level with the small seraph’s own. “How did you learn that anyhow?”_

_“I saw you practice it a few times,” he answered, shyly glancing to the side. His cheeks blushed pink._

_Zaveid grinned, then reached up and grabbed the young seraph in a hug, patting his head. “Hey! You’re a genius, just like I said!”_

_“That…that isn’t…hey! Stop that!” Now the patting had become insistent rubbing and the young seraph tried to wiggle free. “C’mon dad!”_

_This made the old wind seraph chuckle but he released the small seraph from his grasped. Lafarga stood, dusting snow, dirt, and dried blood off his pants and coat._

_“All I’m saying is it ain’t no place for a kid…but thanks. I owe you one,” he said. “But we should get back,” then his face darkened, his smile replaced by a severe expression, “are you really alright?”_

_“I’m fi—“ the young seraph began, then tumbled forward, shock and pain written into his expression as he fell onto Zaveid’s lap. “I…”_

_Lafarga fainted and Zaveid caught him, holding the boy’s small form in his arms. His body leaked a light but familiar purple hue, though the fact that it was dim and thin meant that it was still weak. It would be several months before that seed matured and Lafarga was fully consumed by malevolence…but for all Maotelus knew, this had been several months ago..._

_And Zaveid had been forced to kill his own son._

_The thought made Maotelus’ heart sink down to his stomach. He knew what it was like to lose family, he had lost too many already. It was why he didn’t call on them for help anymore. He wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone, especially not an old friend._

_“I’m sorry, Zaveid,” Maotelus said._

_The wind seraph didn’t hear him, but he had picked up his son, carrying him in his arms, the boy’s head lulling on his shoulder as he walked through the woods of white trees. “We’ll have to tell your sister we’ll leaving. It’ll be dangerous, but Perseus should be able ta look after her. Purification…well…”_

_To go south, Maotelus inferred. Lafargo gave Zaveid a weak nod._

_“We gotta hope that kid still cares, if he doesn’t,” Zaveid paused, then bowed his head. “Fuck Maotelus.”_

In shock, Maotelus dropped the orb, the memory fading from sight. For a few moments, he stood there, still stunned. Then he swallowed, but his saliva tasted like dust.

What had happened to Zaveid? Why did he think Maotelus _wouldn’t_ care? Were even his friends…no, he couldn’t let himself be consumed by this line of thought. Zaveid was hurt. Zaveid was angry. He couldn’t take it personally. He would act like the Empyrean, at least for now, even though those words still stung.

_What happened next?_

He needed to know if that boy was still alive.

No new orbs of light sprung from the earth. That wasn’t right. He asked the question again, this time drawing fiercely on his power.

A single orb appeared. Unlike the others, this orb was black and glowed with a sickly purple light that slowly spread malice to both the earth of the island and the mana far below, dying them in dark shades of violet and red. Eyes widening, he slowly backed away. How had he not felt _this_?

How had he not sensed that a therion—a Lord of Calamity, as they were now called—had come to power without him realizing it? Worse, how had it come to Argos in the north, a land long known for peace as well as resilience against malevolence?

These questions hammered in his ears in sync with his own heartbeat, two mighty yet erratic drums in the deep. First, he caste the sphere away, less it poison him and his vessel further; then he closed his eyes, and tried to steady himself, but failed. Instead, he shook. He felt more out of his depth than he had since the first few decades after he had ascended to the Empyrean throne.

Someone had cut off his sight. That fact filled his soul with dread...and suspicion.

Maotelus shook his head. He needed answers, not just misgivings. Intuition had served him well in the past, but he couldn't plot the right course without a compass to guide him.

 _It is time I pay Teacher a visit,_ he decided, withdrawing from the Earthpulse but not resuming his draconic form. The pope and her priests would just have to deal with having a well-crafted illusion for now. _I do hope she’s in a good mood…though she won’t be when she sees me._

After all, he was about to ruin her vacation. Grimoirh’s two months without serving as his counselor were about to be cut ten days short.

He would have to beg her forgiveness…and bring cookies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do feel a bit bad for leading you on and probably making you think it’s Dezel for a bit, but he isn’t alive yet (in Zestiria, it’s implied Dezel is far less than a century old), but I always believed that Lafarga was the elder of the two. Yes, I know, considering his fate in Zestiria, this might make it even worse. Sorry.


	3. Just Desserts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would apologize for the punny title, but no, Lailah would be disappointed if I did!

_Many historians claim that Maotelus hated Argos, or at the very least, cared little about their affairs and well-being, thus leading to neglect. Indeed, it’s hard to explain why he let Argos experience such terrible malevolence for so long, and if he had a good reason, well, he never once told little ol’ me. Not that I care, of course._

_Truth is, I kind of think those naysaying hooligans might have had a point! Maotelus had grown distracted by the conflicts and skirmishes in the south, for he loved the remnants of the Holy Midgand Empire more than he did the strange lands and peoples of the north. That love, I think, blinded him to Argos’ problems until it was too late to prevent anything…_

_Pity that God's got faults, huh?_

~M.L. Mayvin, Part 1: “Wherever the Tide Shall Sweep”, _Hidden Histories_ , V. 12

***

On top of a table at the back of a sunlit café Grimoirh sat, her head deep in a musty tome that smelled distinctly of dusty cobwebs and old blood. Her pointed hat lodged askew on one side of her head, dangerously close to falling onto the right page of the gigantic book laid out before for her. With claws outstretched, she hooked a nail under the tip of the golden-brown page and flipped it to the next page, awakening yet another cloud of dust which lead to yet another fit of coughs and wheezes.

Once it had settled, Grimoirh released a longwinded sigh and shook her head. How one book could contain so much filth was a small wonder…and a great annoyance, but it _was_ just the kind of jinx she expected from the author of this particular text. With a deep frown, her gaze returned to the woodblock printed manuscript…and the new shadow that laid across the pages. This called forth yet another sigh. It seemed fate, at long last, had decided to smother the embers of her vacation.

At least fate had brought cookies.

The aroma of fresh ginger crushed into spicy snacks nearly won him her forgiveness, but she knew better. Even such delicious baked goods would not earn him her favor so effortlessly. She would not be so easily swayed by her wayward pupil’s gifts.

Though the young seraph’s homemade gingersnaps were a good start towards making her more amenable. They were her favorite snack.

"May I acquire, Teacher," Maotelus began, hovering over her shoulder like an annoying fly despite that he did not have wings in his current form, "why _that_ is outside of the library?"

"I desired some light reading on my vacation," she replied, not bothering to indulge him with her gaze. He had not earned that yet. He was here to ruin her day at the very least. She had mote-gazing yet to do, and lounging in the sun scheduled afterwards, with some napping in between. Twice. One could never do enough napping. "Child, you are standing in my light."

Once that would have been enough to prompt a bumbling apology from her still young pupil, now it only brought forth a small sigh of his own. Well, at least he had learned something useful in the eight hundred years since she had become his tutor. It was a start.

"There is a reason the Forbidden Texts are kept in the darkest corner of the library's archives," he said, but rounded the table and seated himself down on the opposite bench. “Where they belong.”

Grimoirh, of course, sighed at this action. Like a typical youth, he had no respect for their elders. He should have waited for permission, but headstrong and stubborn were two unbecoming traits he had yet to rid himself of despite having reached his majority centuries ago. Still, he propped the basket of cookies he had made on the table. They were covered by a rich red cloth, the familiar scent of ginger and spice was enough to draw her gaze…and that of the human guests, though they could not see what had triggered their other senses. Someone muttered something about suddenly recalling the scent of their grandmother’s baking from a table nearby. Another thought they smelled a lady's soap. She shook her head in slight disbelief, invisibility did have such curious quirks. 

"What if another saw it?" he asked.

She peered up at her student over the rim of her glasses. Much like the veil that covered his spirit to conceal his presence from those whom could sense him, he wore a nondescript cloak over his shoulders. Its hood hid his face from prying eyes and its deep brown cloth enveloped his lanky form, but it did little to obscure his tenor, which was as warm and melodious as ever.

“Books, you understand," she said, turning the page backwards. Hopefully, he was not paying attention, "are meant to be read.”

“In the right place!”

“And a small café in the heart of the craftsman district is bound to be full of those with high resonance, is it not.” She punctuated this statement with a prolonged sigh, not a question mark. “And if there were some here, I think they would keep it hidden…as to not stand out or look strange.”

“I supposed that is correct.” He bowed his head in defeat. A few strands of hair fell outside of the hood, glowing golden in the beam of midwinter sunlight that lit their table. “Still, if another seraph had come in…”

“Do you think me so irresponsible that I would let them see the contents of this book?”

He flinched as though slapped. Grimoirh smiled a little at this, taking great pride in that she could still provoke such reactions from her momentarily least favorite pupil.

“No, of course not,” the Empyrean squeaked. Internally, she snickered at that description, though she carefully schooled her features to hide her reaction.

“Good,” she replied. “All they would see, of course, is a book of my favorite recipes.”

That received a few light chuckles. “Last I recall, you don’t cook.” Maotelus reached for the book and broke her spell with a brief burst of mana; notably, he still wore the long gold-trimmed white gloves beneath and, thus, probably, his regular white and gold outfit. Internally, this choice made her sigh. It was very likely he just thought the cloak was a good enough disguise. Lifting the book to read it, he then shook his head in mild bewilderment at what he saw. “Why are you reading Magilou’s first volume? You were traveling along with us.”

She narrowed her eyes slightly at this. “Only partially,” Grimoirh corrected. “As I recall, I spent most of my time either gazing at the sea or translating that book for you and the other children.”

“Teacher," he began, "As I remember, we made sure to keep you well-informed about our travels.”

“And I am no earth seraph with a perfect memory,” she said, lifting a claw. In truth, most earth seraphim did not possess that ability either, but they both knew of whom she spoke. Eizen could recall anything, from the most obscure fact about archaeology to what he had for breakfast sixty years ago, or so it seemed. “I thought I might read it to remind me of things I might have forgotten or misplaced.”

“Is it good?” He asked, pulling a cookie from his basket. He offered it to her.

“Hmmm?” She took a bite. These were indeed delightful. Just the right mix of ginger and spice, neither too hot nor too sweet. “Yes, these are perfect.”

“No,” he said, waving his hand. “I mean, did she do a good job?”

“You’ve never read them.”

He rested a hand on the book’s aged pages. “Not this _particular_ volume, it’s…difficult for me. I love them all, but what we did…sometimes I regret parts of it, too.”

“And thus, you formed a religion around your guilty conscious.”

“That isn’t…all. I miss those times.”

Grimoirh readjusted her hat so it would fall off her head when she stood, then crossed the table on which she had laid reading the tome until moments ago when her least favorite pupil had decided to disrupt her midwinter holiday. When she reached the other side, she jumped on said book and looked up into his hood. As was his wont, he hadn’t bothered to hide his face with anything _but_ the hood and its shadow. Beneath, she could make out the lines and planes of his face, hardened by the centuries of leadership, hardship, and war. It wasn’t the face of the youth she remembered, while time was long for the seraphim, it did not leave them unchanged.

Sometimes, she wished it did. Fools such as this child…she wished he did not chose to bear so many of his burdens alone. His guilt, she knew, ran deeper than just the activities he had participated in long ago. He felt guilty, too, for all the evil that had happened sense. He felt responsible, also, for requiring the help of those companions and putting them in danger so that he might one day succeed in ridding the earth of malevolence thus allowing man and seraph to live in harmony. It did not matter that they had chosen to aid him and had sworn to do so, Maotelus now wished to keep them safe and had thus pushed them away...despite that he also needed them. Loneliness was a hard pill to take.

But Grimoirh was not a particularly good counselor, at least not when it came to this kind of thing. Admittedly, advising wasn’t easy when the person you were speaking to did not want to listen to sound advice.

“As I have said before,” she tutted instead, mindful to keep her foreboding thoughts to herself, “it is important for us to recall our past, even when it might make us uncomfortable, Laphicet.”

Green eyes flashed warningly beneath his hood, but she, as his _Teacher_ , would use that name all she wanted no matter how he felt about it. Sometimes, it was the only way to get through to this thickheaded seraph. She was familiar with his tactics, and knew when he did not want to talk about what was truly troubling him.

“But I believed you did not come here to discuss my choice in reading material, unless I am to be banned from my own collections…and allowed to retire at long last.”

“Of course not,” he said, then his cheeks pinked slightly. “I guess I was just longing for a distraction.”

That was never good, but the silence lingered. Grimoirh gave him a slight but thoughtful frown. Something dreadful must had occurred.

“Did the Shepherd send you a sylphjay?”

Maotelus shook his head. “I have yet to hear news from either Raok or Lailah.” Not that he should expect any such thing from the latter. That seraph was about as likely to send reports as the Reaper’s coin was to land on heads. Oh how she longed for the days when Prime Lords were a little more…accountable than their frilly firebrand. “They would inform us if things went south on the border. There is no war yet, at least not in those lands.”

“We can only hope,” she paused, then backpedaled. _In those lands…_ “What _has_ happened?”

He backed into his seat, nearly falling off the bench. “Teacher, given that there are some here who can hear us at the very least,” he said, voice low. A few human gazes did seem to shift to them from time to time as they spoke, though she doubted they had strong enough resonance to see them. Fewer did these days, at least among the lower classes. Still, it was best to be cautious. “This isn’t the kind of information we should let leak to prying ears, not with politics as they are…I’m sorry to ask this of you.”

“Ah. At least you have maintained your manners.” She drew herself up to her full height, which, of course, barely reached his chest even sitting down. “I will return with you to the Shrinechurch.”

“Thank you.” He bowed his head and gave her an apologetic smile. “I am sorry for ruining your vacation.”

“What’s done is done,” she replied. “Let us be off, young man.”

Smiling, he held out his hand. With his help, she climbed onto his shoulder and then on top of his head. His far higher height, she mused, served as a wonderful perch. Even though it made him complain and mutter to serve her as a roost, he deserved it after he had so handedly ruined the last of her vacation.

Yes, she was a little spiteful. She had a right to be.

“We’ll drop this book off in the archives, of course.”

She frowned. “There’s no need—“ Maotelus pocketed the tome inside his flowing cloak, purposely ignoring her words. “—I have yet to finish it.”

“How we awoke the Empyreans is hardly an interesting part of that story,” he remarked as they left the café, speeding out into the snow covered capital. “You helped us work that part out, Teacher.”

She sniffed. She did, in fact, remember that quite well. It was still interesting to read Magilou’s descriptions and narrative, the young witch had an interesting way with words, though he was wrong about the passage she was reading. It was the epilogue concerning the oath his remaining companions had eventually made after Velvet's demise that had caught her attention...but she had barely read a word of it before he had interrupted her. She'd have to sneak it out again later.

“I’m sure you know the rest well enough,” he said. “Are you certain you weren’t just reading it because you miss her?”

That only received a dispassionate shrug…though he could not see her from down there and had to pay more attention to more important things, like navigating icy yet crowded streets while invisible to most of the city’s human denizens. Luckily, the café she had chosen to lounge in this morning was not that far from the Shrinechurch, however. She had picked this spot with care. She always worried that her least favorite pupil would recall her early, as was his wont, unfortunately.

In all truth, she was surprised it had taken him this long.

“I miss her too.”

They turned the street corner, the buildings getting finer the closer they got to the Shrinechurch. Many nobles and wealthy merchants still lived nearby, believing that proximity to the Shrinechurch would grant them divine gifts and protection. It didn’t work that way, but humans oft believe such strange things. She coughed, trying to gain his attention.

“Magilou is worst of the bunch, I swear. She barely sends me any letters and…” He skidded to a halt, the words catching in his throat before he could ramble on about her nefarious niece.

They had arrived at the Shrinechurch, the monolithic structure loomed before them with its great stained glass windows and pillars of stone. Many who served here could still see them, and several seraphim served Maotelus as well. He let out a sigh, but his shoulders straightened, his back tensed. For a brief moment, he had unconsciously put back on the mantle of the Empyrean despite that he still bore the form of a man. Sensing this change, one of the seraphim spotted them, and began to approach.

“Shit.”

Maotelus drew mana into himself, a purple glyph appeared at his feet, and... Oh dear…

“My lor—“

He finished casting. Mist and shadow arose and formed a veil around them, causing the water seraph to stare at them in dumbfounded silence. Cloaked from sight, Maotelus wind-stepped to a balcony on the second floor, and landed gracefully in the thin layer of snow that yet clung to the cold stone underfoot. Leaning over the thick railing, he pointed to the seraph they had made a fool of near the main entrance, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. The young man was bent over, arms hanging freely, and no doubt still gasping in their wake.

“You are a terrible child.” Grimoirh leaped from his head onto the rail, hands on her hips almost as soon as she landed. She was utterly adhered by such immature behavior, and she did not let out a snort. It was a sniffle; after all, it was cold out here (though the temperature bothered her not). “What would your sister think?”

Laughter sprung merrily from the tall seraph beside her, reminding Grimoirh briefly of the young malak he had once been long ago. “Which one?” he asked with a wink. “Velvet wouldn’t mind, I think she would probably applaud the fact that I came up with a plan of escape so quickly.”

“Or kill the seraph on sight under the right circumstances…”

“Magilou loves this kind of joke.”

Grimoirh tsked at him in reproach as he turned around, his cloak billowing dramatically in the midwinter wind. “Those two were abysmal role models,” she remarked, not that the pirate and daemon had been much better. “Let me rephrase my question, what would Eleanor say?”

He gave Grimoirh a half-shrug in reply, his back still turned to her, then led the way inside the Shrinechurch…and into _her_ office. Grimoirh stood on the edge between the snow-covered balcony and the sterile and tidy room within, a little surprised herself that he had chosen to wind-step up here. Why was the balcony door to her office open…?

No, wrong question. Why had he _left_ it open in the first place? He had planned this whole escapade from the beginning…that was admittedly quite normal. Maotelus was even more prone to mischief than he had been as a youth. Playing pranks was one of the few joys he had these days, he liked to claim.

“Is your office clean, young man?”

The seraph lowered himself onto the desk and placed the basket of cookies beside him, studying the grandfather clock nestled between her two bookshelves lining the opposite wall. The clock read half-past ten, its tick-tock was the only answer she got in the impending silence that filled the room.

She narrowed her eyes, suspicious. “Maotelus?”

“They will search there first,” he answered, taking up her quill and twirling it between his fingers absentmindedly. “Now that it’s known that I have been out and about without informing my priests and servants, they’re bound to come for me again. Gods must be ever-present, after all.”

She snorted at that, but the priests of this generation were a particularly needy bunch... “Off the desk,” she demanded in her regular stern tone, hopping onto the desk beside him. He raised an eyebrow in lieu of standing. “I am short and you…”

“Alright, short one.” Maotelus grinned as he bowed his head, then backed away quickly as though she had sent more than a fleeting glare his way. Quickly, he chose the chair behind the desk and sat upon the plump, scarlet cushion. Occupying the desk as though it was his own instead of hers, he placed his elbows on the oak and intertwined his fingers in front of his face. “Is this better, you think?”

“No.” He looked a little like an evil overlord with his hood still up and his face hidden by shadows. “However...”

“We should get to business, is that correct?” Noting her air of exasperation, he removed his hood and summoned a flick of white fire to light the lamp sat on her desk. How wasteful, using the flames of purification like that. But those fire served to burn all signs of playfulness away, a humorless frown now resting on his face. “To put it simply, I have felt ill of late. Or…not ill exactly.”

Carefully, she adjusted her glasses, considering. There were, in truth, many things this could mean. “Are you certain you are not merely lonely, child?”

He gave her a brittle smile. The answer was ‘yes’, but there was little either could do to cure a lonely heart. There was a reason he longed for letters from Magilou and the rest of his old companions, and while he counted her among his closest friends, she knew that it was their company he longed for instead…even if he felt it best that he did not seek it. After the tragedy that had befell them a hundred years past, he had pushed them away for their own safety.

Or so he claimed. She disagreed.

“I am constantly surrounded by people, Teacher,” he replied, replacing the quill next to the inkwell. “How could I possibly feel so isolated with so many around me?”

They exchanged a knowing look as the grandfather clock tick in the resulting silence and the wind rustled through the yet open balcony door. “How indeed…” She closed her eyes.

“I fear that lack of good company is the least of my worries,” he said, then lifted a hand, showing her his palm. “Please, don’t correct me. I know what you’re about to say.”

She bit back her words before they could spurt.

“But I can’t do that, it’s out of the question.” He waved his hand. “Eleanor is perfectly happy in Gododdin. She says so in her letters.”

Grimoirh stared at him wordlessly. _What a fool,_ she thought. She had no doubt that Eleanor had written him so, but she also had no doubt that the fire seraph was lying. He must have known it too, even in writing, that one still did not know how to even tell a fib.

“It isn’t mere loneliness that troubles me, I went into the Earthpulse because I felt something was wrong with my vessel.”

She straightened her back, meeting his gaze with one equally as severe. “This is not due to war between Rolance and Hyland?”

While the last major war had ended a century before, to their people, that was not so long ago. The seraphim had long memories, after all, and the Princessia Wars had had many far reaching consequences. Lohgrin, Argos, and Hyland had gained independence, Rolance had been crippled for decades, and the Church of Maotelus had lost much of the sway it once held over the remnants of Midgand. Decades of war had cost them greatly and they had yet to truly recover, and now, there was only one active Prime Lord and Shepherd to stand against the darkness should it arise again.

“There is not, but if news gets out, I have no doubt that war would occur. Rolance wants to reclaim the land it lost, but can’t, not with Argos breathing down their necks.” He took a breath, then like a diver plunging into the ocean, leaped straight into his explanation. “When I examine my vessel, I found something odd. There is a great amount of malevolence in Argos. In fact, I have reasons to think that it may have been brewing for some time.”

She glanced over at the pile of papers on her desk. Surely things had not changed so much in a mere month’s time. “That makes little sense, our reports say otherwise…”

“Our _reports_ on those lands have always been lackluster at best,” he said with a frown, voice low. “Why pay mind when they are so far north and not prone to conflict like the nations down here, I had thought. Our resources are not like they once were.”

That much was true, but his points also missed the marked.

“And they are not descendants from Midgand, am I not wrong?”

His cheeks flushed and one of his hands rolled up into a fist, but Maotelus nodded his head. “Yes, that is true,” he admitted. “But, lingering on the past doesn’t help the present. We have a Lord of Calamity on our hands.”

A chill made the fur on her back and arms stand on end. But she doused the rising fear in ice, she could not let such emotions consume her. “Are you certain?” she asked.

“Yes, it is worse than that, I’m afraid,” he said, his tone becoming increasingly desperate, his back leaned forward in his seat. “I was _blind_ to it. I thought, at worse, there might be a plague in Ladylake or a small uprising in Loegres or perhaps a horde of drakes wandering about. It didn’t feel like a therion…I…I think something has blocked my sight.”

He ended that breathlessly, his body slouched, brow furrowed, eyes tense and uncertain. She hadn’t seen him this frightened since he was a child, not even in private conferences like this.

“Have you checked the seal?”

They did not often call it by its name, doing so still pained him too much.

“Not recently,” he admitted.

“You may want to,” she advised. “It may not matter. I have long had a theory, one, I think, you will not like.”

“Go on,” he said like a man who wished she would do anything but tell him, but that was one thing about this position he had claimed. He could not simply avoid inconvenient truths. That was a luxury afforded common men and seraphim, not the leader of the Empyreans. He took a deep breath. “If you do not mind.”

Just like Maotelus to still recall manners in a time like this. “The seal is imperfect, thus each time a new therion arises, it is simply the power of Immoninat leaking back into the land.”

“I know.”

Astonished, her eyes widened slightly. That…wasn’t what she expected. Well, well, he could still impress her with his quick wits, it seemed.

“It’s difficult to unravel such an ancient system,” he said, rubbing his temples. “But, this is worse than a simple leak. I fear Immoninat is trying to escape, and this is part of his plan. Not only does he want to get out, he also wants to take his position back as well.”

If that was so, it meant he was far more aware than she had thought. Before, she had assumed it was solely a subconscious reenactment of his duties to cleanse mankind of malevolence, now she was forced to acknowledge that it was more than that.

He was awake…partially. _Ah…that poor child_. She was not sure if she meant Maotelus, Velvet, or possibly both.

“You will need to check the Abbey’s old archives, I will check on the seal,” he said, grabbing a sheet of paper from the pile and taking the quill he had earlier discarded. Grimoirh felt momentarily stunned by this sudden change towards actions, but perhaps…just speaking his mind had given him motivation enough to put his plans into motion. He dipped the pen carefully in the inkwell. “But first, I have a letter to write. It isn’t good to run amok without information, we need eyes on the ground.”

Instead of asking who he meant to send, she watched as the seraph carefully wrote out a greeting, keeping it elegant and neat as was his wont. _To Eizen with my apologizes,_ it began.

“Aren’t you concerned about his curse?”

His pen stopped mid-sentence, he gave her a knowing look. “I’m banking on it,” he said, then bit his lip, his quill racing once more across the plain white paper she kept in stock. There was a slight, tense shake to his shoulders, she noticed. He didn't want to do this. “I…only do so in desperation. Fear. I do not want to lose another one.”

She nodded, yes, at least he had admitted the truth. Partially.

“But I need answers, we can’t act without them.”

“That is true.”

“I am breaking my promise,” he whispered mostly to himself, folding up the paper and sealing it closed shut with _her_ stamp. Grimoirh rolled her eyes. “Please send out a sylphjay. I’m afraid…”

Someone knocked on the door. Quickly, the seraph stood, discarding his cloak on the back of her chair and donning the mantel of Empyrean once more.

“That I must attend my duties.”

With that, Maotelus left, leaving her with the sealed letter and a thought. If she was sending out his letter, she might as well send another.

Eleanor deserved to know the truth. With that decision made, Grimoirh took another cookie from the basket and got to work scripting her letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh. Looks like your grandmother is up to no good! :P

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave Kudos or feel free to comment. Thanks in advance! <3


End file.
